


Champagne Fountain

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Disguised as a simple story about piss-drinking, M/M, Pseudointellectual diddling, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7373071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Electric lemonade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Champagne Fountain

**Author's Note:**

> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and goodnight.

None of this should come as a surprise. It's the ordinary inserted into the extraordinary that creates the juxtaposition, the cognitive dissonance. The excitement.  
Yes, the excitement.  
Oswald, for his part, is so blasé as to be locked up, rigid, as though helpless in revulsion. As though Oswald could go so far into disinterest that he came out again through disgust, into horror.  
“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks with a sneer.  
Edward runs his hands up the backs of Oswald's thighs. They're so soft. Cool in the unheated bathroom as untouched tile. For a moment, Edward loses himself in the swirl of tactility. The competing textures of skin and hair. The shadow theater of muscle and bone beneath skin. How palpation and visualization merge into a wholly new sense when Edward palms Oswald's bad knee, tries not for the first time to imagine the damage done. He presses his mouth to the interior curve of Oswald's thigh, rubs up and down; first dry, then wet. Licks a hyphen upward. Lets his hands roam over Oswald's ass, one finger dipping in to brush his anus. Oswald starts, sighs a little, and puts his hands on his hips.  
“This isn't a comfortable position for me.”  
“Yes, of course,” Edward says, “I'm ready.”  
It is a surprise, though. How hot it actually is. Of course urine is hot, he scolds himself- it's contained within the body, heated by the body's metabolic processes. It hits Edward on the shoulder, stains his cold skin like a brand. There should be steam rising up from the point of contact, Edward's so cold and this is so hot. As it trickles down, over his chest, his back, his shoulder, it cools. Too soon, it cools, in a chilling shock. Edward trembles.  
“You really like this?” Oswald asks.  
“Yes,” Edward murmurs. 'Like' isn't precisely the correct word, though. It's novel. Perhaps, it's novelty for its own sake. It's shocking, and thrilling, and produces so many sensations, all seemingly contradictory. The stream hits his suprasternal notch. Piss drips down his sternum, his belly, disappears into his pubic hair. He's aroused, but in a detached way. That, too, is a sensation to be collected, to be examined.  
“Let me taste it,” he says.  
“Edward, no,” Oswald says huffily, “That's disgusting.”  
“Do you have a urinary tract infection?”  
“What? No.”  
“Then, your piss is sterile. It's just metabolic waste.”  
“You are so weird,” Oswald says, then, “Give me a second,” then, “Okay.”  
In his mouth, the heat isn't so noticeable. It wouldn't be; his body's the same temperature as Oswald's. They both run hot. Under the guise of testing his thermometer's accuracy, he took Oswald's temperature. It was within .1 degree of Edward's own. This was a pleasant discovery. Oswald's urine is bitter, like his own. Like, Edward imagines, that of just about every healthy human being. In the practical sense, one person's not so very different from another. The things that make up people, the things they need and don't need, are all the same. They all retain and excrete.  
“What does it taste like?” Oswald asks, charmingly prissy.  
“I could kiss you, and you could get an idea.”  
Oswald's expression is unreadable, too many furrows and too much blankness to be just one thing. His face relaxes. “Okay,” he says softly.  
Edward stands. He takes Oswald in his arms, turns him a little bit so that his back is against the wall, and makes the necessary adjustments to the way their bodies are positioned.  
Now, detachment is impossible. Oswald's tongue is in his mouth, tasting himself; tasting both of them. It's always a revelation, when Edward wants Oswald; Edward never gets far from the initial moment of infatuation. From the perfect interlocking of desire and circumstance, when he first touched Oswald, and found himself being touched in return. He allows himself a few luxurious minutes of kissing Oswald, touching his body, before he kneels again.  
“Not here,” Oswald says tartly.  
“Oh, yes,” Edward says, “The bathtub isn't very good for my knees, either.”  
On the bed, Oswald lets him do what he likes. Within reason. He'll allow Edward to explore certain parts of him with his hands, but not his mouth. “I'm not kissing you if you do that,” Oswald says, whenever Edward asks. One day, though.  
One day, not long ago, Oswald balked at even the idea of allowing Edward to watch him piss. He attributed it to nerves, but Edward knew. That everyone likes to keep secrets. The body does, as well. It holds things within it, changes them, expels them. While one can't see what happens on the inside, the finished product tells some of the story. In a way, it's like love.  
He let Edward watch. To shut you up, Oswald said. Not long after that, he allowed Edward to hold his cock as he did it. Edward went down on him immediately afterwards. Came without Oswald touching him.  
You can push. But you have to be careful how you push. Push too hard, or too fast, or in the wrong direction, and you'll break something. It's not pleasant, but it's elegant. It's physics. What's more elegant than the causal relationship between a force and the object it acts upon?  
After all of the science and poetry, though, there are disappointingly few ways to enjoy another's body. Edward's had him in almost every way, but Oswald still has a few mysteries left. Maybe-  
Maybe Edward will leave them unsolved. It's a torment to deny yourself, but it's love. In love, even pain is pleasure. And pleasure, pain. Until the two become muddled, and you no longer care which you're getting. As long as it keeps coming.


End file.
